


A Matter of Time

by farevenasdecidedtouse



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Genre: Coming In Pants, Dry Humping, Hand Jobs, M/M, trapped together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 22:09:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14341977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farevenasdecidedtouse/pseuds/farevenasdecidedtouse
Summary: "They say that two masters are a no-go. No one says anything about a master and a mistress."





	A Matter of Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetry/gifts).



It could have been worse, Locke reminded himself, letting out a cautious breath as a third pair of boots tramped past the hiding place Jean had dragged them into not a second too soon. Despite the lack of a proper safehouse in this part of town, located just off Coinkisser’s Row, the warehouse was owned and operated by the Right People. Multiple man-sized crates providing a good, temporary location for _garristas_ and _pezons_ in the know to regroup on the heels of, say, a horribly failed burglary.

Immediate escape through the streets wasn't an option in a part of town where the watch was well-paid and the citizens important. Escape over the roofs was even less so, considering the heavy interplay of roofs and catbridges over which the yellowjackets currently trooped in pairs, with whistles and weapons at the ready. As such, Locke reminded himself, at this point it was just a matter of waiting in a hiding place very nearly large enough for one big man and one average-sized man until the streets were clear enough that they could make a break for it.

Just a matter of time. Time which would have gone by just as uncomfortably but far less awkwardly if Jean _hadn’t_ been wedged in behind him so tightly as to leave Locke no room to get away from what was currently poking him in the ass.

Locke took a deep breath. “Ah,” he said.

“Who the fuck decides to throw off a perfectly good watch rotation for _this_ , that’s what I want to know,” Jean said, voice huskier than it ought to have been even with the need to whisper.

“Jean—“ Locke tried again.

“I’m ready to start yelling and save the yellowjackets the trouble if it means we don’t have to have this conversation right now,” Jean hissed.

“Take heart. Tracking two lowlives like us for too long has got to be above their pay rate.” Locke fell silent as another two sets of boots sounded outside the loading door not far from their crate.

Jean snorted but didn’t answer. Locke followed suit, trying to think about anything other than Jean’s hard-on. There was Jean’s broad, solid chest pressing him against the wooden crate side in front of them, Jean’s warm breath ruffling the hair at the back of Locke’s neck, Jean’s hands… this was a less than helpful train of thought, and yet it was suddenly the only one available. Jean’s weight, the solid bulk that had kept Locke out of physical trouble more times than Jean himself could have counted with an adding machine, was bearing down on Locke hard, provoking a whole lot more less-than-helpful thoughts. Thoughts of replacing that door with a mattress and Jean’s hands on the Sisters strapped to his thighs with his hands on—

Locke let out the quietest possible huff of frustration and shifted his weight to his other foot. This had the unplanned side effect of shifting him against Jean, who stiffened in a variety of interesting ways. “I’m. Sorry,” Jean growled in a tone that seemed to reverberate through Locke’s body like a roll of thunder. “We can go home and never speak of this again. Just don’t think this means—“

Experimentally, Locke ground his ass, deliberate and slow, against the burning heat of Jean’s cock. For a split second Jean froze in place, too shocked to even gasp, a situation remedied as Locke repeated the motion.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing, Lamora?” Had Jean’s voice always been this deep and rough? The sheer contrast—Jean’s powerful, solid body trembling with need and hopeful agony, his voice unsteady and hungrier than Locke had ever heard—was mind-blowing. Caught somewhere between the satisfaction of a well-executed job and the anticipation of anything he had ever wanted, every practical consideration that might have put Locke off the idea otherwise kept him grinding against the worryingly long shaft with his ass and the small of his back.

“You can think of it as one friend helping another with distraction, no strings attached. If you want,” Locke replied, voice a surprisingly steady whisper. “Alternately, you can shut the hells up for however long this takes—which judging by what I’m feeling won’t be very long—and think about all the ways you can thank me later.”

“Later?” Jean replied weakly. “But you—“

“They say two masters are a no-go.” Locke grinned like the Temple of Long Silence facade as he felt Jean’s hips beginning to move with his own. Each stroke pressed Locke against the door in front of them, drawing attention to both the fact that he was hard and getting harder and the fact that he had not, in fact, misjudged the situation. “No one says anything about a master and a mistress.”

“If you think I’ve just been pining for you all this time—“ Jean lost the rest of his sentence in a huff of breath as Locke reached his arms back the few scant inches afforded by the encroaching walls to grasp Jean’s hips, pulling them still closer together. Against Locke’s back Jean’s chest was broad and warm, the familiar smell of him cutting through the smell of sawdust and musty warehouse like a warding talisman and thickening the miasma of lust clouding Locke’s brain.

“I don’t. You’re so obvious it would have come out sooner if you were.” Locke ran his thumbs up and down the lines of Jean’s hips. “But wanting something still builds up, and when the opportunity comes for you to _take_ it—“

To his credit, Jean didn’t make a single noise as he finally came, still rutting against Locke like a teenager too aflame to even bother with his hand. It seemed to go on for minutes—at some point Jean had gotten his hands in front of himself and was squeezing Locke’s shoulder, movements too controlled to rattle the walls around them but too eager to be anything other than an end to the torment of moments before. Locke, who had trailed off as the palpable spasms of Jean’s still-clothed cock had begun, started to attempt twisting around before he felt one large, calloused hand on the length of his own hard-on.

“Holy Twelve.” Jean’s voice seemed even softer in the silence around them. “You really do want this.”

“Well spotted, fucknuts,” Locke hissed before burying his teeth in his lower lip at the feeling of Jean’s hand fumbling with the catch of his trousers. “You really thought I didn’t?”

“I don’t… just shut up, all right?” Then the heat and calloused skin of Jean’s hand on his cock drove out any more coherent thought, leaving Locke (silently) panting for breath and invoking every god he could think of with each stroke. It was over in the space of a few seconds as Locke spilled over Jean’s hand with a single, soft grunt and a shudder that felt on the edge of shaking their shelter apart.

“If you think I’m going to talk about this now,” Jean said after a few moments of them both panting, “you’re sorely mistaken.”

“What about when we finally get out of here?”

Jean hesitated so long that Locke thought he was agreeing, but then replied “I was more hoping for a repeat performance somewhere I’m less likely to get splinters in my cock.”

With a sigh of satiation and a contentment he had rarely felt, Locke settled much more comfortably back against Jean. “Talking about shit is overrated anyway.”


End file.
